On rapid pinions did the dark winged crow,

And broad plumed eagle speed their homeward flight; Warned by the signs, the twain, descending slow,

In converse grave, passed down the wooded height; And, in the sachem's sylvan palace, share Respite from hunger, toil and present care.

CANTO SIXTH.

The winds of March o'er Narraganset's bay

Move in their strength-the waves with foam are white, O'er Seekonk's tide the waving branches play,

The woods roar o'er resounding plain and height; 'Twixt sailing clouds, the sun's inconstant ray

But glances on the scene-then fades from sight; The frequent showers dash from the passing clouds; The hills are peeping through their wintry shrouds.

II.

Dissolving snows each downward channel fill,
Each swollen brook a foaming torrent brawls,
Old Seekonk murmurs, and, from every hill,
Answer aloud the coming waterfalls;
Deep-voiced Pawtucket thunders louder still;
To dark Mooshausick joyously he calls,

Who breaks his bondage, and, through forests brown,
Murmurs the hoarse response, and rolls his tribute down.

III.

But hark! that sound, above the cataracts

And hollow winds in this wild solitude

Seems passing strange.-Who, with the laboring axe,
On Seekonk's eastern marge, invades the wood;
Stroke follows stroke-some sturdy hind attacks

Yon ancient groves which from their birth have stood
Unmarred by steel-and startled at the sound,
The wild deer snuffs the gales-then with a bound

IV.

Vaults o'er the thickets, and, down yonder glen,
His antlers vanish-on yon shaggy height
Sits the lone wolf, half peering from his den,
And howls regardless of the morning light—
Unwonted sounds and a strange denizen

Vex his repose-then, cowering with affright
He shrinks away-for with a crackling sound,
Yon lofty hemlock bows, and thunders to the ground.

V.

Who on the prostrate trunk has risen now,

And does with cleaving steel the blows renew? Broad is the beaver of his manly brow,

His mantle gray, his hosen azure blue ; His feet are dripping with dissolving snow; His garments sated with the morning dew; His nerves seem strengthened with the labor past ;— His visage hardened by the winter's blast.

VI.

Though changed by sufferings, 'tis our founder yet;
There does he hope, and labor, but in vain,
On free opinion's base to build a State,

Where reason aye shall spurn the tyrant's chain ;
But, ah! unhappy man! the bigot's hate,
Will still, I fear, thy lofty soul restrain:

Will rob thee even of an exile's home,
And leave thee still in savage wilds to roam.

VII.

Hard by yon little fountain, clear and sheen,

Whose swollen streamlet murmurs down the glade, Where groves of hemlocks and of cedars green, Stand 'gainst the northern storm a barricade, Springs the first mansion of his rude demesne, A slender wigwam by red Waban made: Such is sire Williams' shelter from the blast, And there his rest when daily toils are past.

VIII.

Yet seldom from the storm he shrinks away,
With his own hands he's laboring to rear
A mansion, where his wife and children may,
In happier days, partake the social cheer;
Where no sour bigot may in wrath essay

To make the free-born spirit quail with fear,
At threat of scourge, of banishment and death,
For the free thought-the soul's sustaining breath.

IX.

Day after day, does he his toil renew;

The echoing woods still to the axe resound, The falling cedars do the valley strew,

Or cumber with their trunks the littered ground;
The solid beams and rafters does he hew,

Or labors hard to roll their masses round ;
Or squares their sides, or moulds their joints by rule,
To fit their fellows, and sustain the whole.

X.

Long did this task sire Williams' cares engage,
'Twas labor strange to hands like his, I ween,
That had far oftener turned the sacred page,

Than hewed the trunk, or delved the grassy green; But toils like these gave honors to the sage,

The axe and spade in no one's hands are mean, And least of all in thine that toiled to clear

The mind's free march-illustrious pioneer !

XI.

Boast of your swords, ye blood-stained conquerors-boast The free-born millions ye have made your slaves; Exult o'er fields where liberty was lost,

And patriots fell-where lingering o'er their graves, A nation's memory, like a vengeful ghost,

Broods never slumbering, and forever raves Of crimes unanswered-till the gathered wrath. Of ages bursts on your ensanguined path—

XII.

And-where are ye? some remnant left behind,
Some sculptured marble, or decaying fane,
May shew where once ye triumphed mad and blind,
Shew but for genius ye had fought in vain ;
Then look to him whose quiet toils unbind

The bonds which bigots gave you to enchain
Man's angel spirit to some demon's will,
And at your guilty deeds, blush and be still.

XIII.

The dawn beheld him as he issued forth

Beneath his arm his well-edged hatchet borne ; Maugre the fury of the stormy north,

His toils resumed anticipate the morn;

The tempest pours, and, in the whirlwind's wrath,
Full many a branch is from the forest torn ;
Yet still his axe resounds-the wearied sun
Goes down to rest and leaves him toiling on.

XIV.

The beams now hewn, he frames the building squareEach joint adjusting to its counter-part

Tier above tier with labor does he bear

Timber on timber closes every part;

Save where the door and lattice breathe the air;

And now the rafters from the wallings start,

And matted o'er is every space between,
And closed against the storm with rushes green.

XV.

His cot now finished, he begins to rear

A paling rude around that verdant glade;
His field and garden soon would flourish there,
And wild marauders might their fruits invade;
His maize might yield a banquet to the bear,

And herds of deer might on his herbage tread ;

But little thought he that intruders worse
Than such invaders would his labors curse..